Christmas on Baker Street
by Alaska-Roth-Spiegelman
Summary: John has to get That Man a present, but That Man keeps figuring out the gifts ahead of time. John & Sherlock as friends only; no slash. Light cuteness.
1. Chapter 1

Of course he had known.

As John Watson stalked through the streets of London, kicking slush angrily out of his way, he reflected to himself that of course _he had been an idiot_ for thinking Sherlock wouldn't know. It was the _most_ bloody irritating thing about living with that man. The hours? John could get over the hours, move past the front door of 221B Baker Street slamming shut at precisely whenever he happened to be dozing into anything, God forbid, _resembling_ normal sleep. The experiments? John could move past those, too, could pretend not to notice the human eyeballs wretchedly preserved in the refrigerator and ignore the weird tribal ritual Sherlock seemed to conduct every other Wednesday with the femur of a yak. The gay thing? John could reassert his sexuality as many times as he needed without breaking too much of a sweat. But the _sheer condescending omnipotence_ of the man? Now _that_ was going to get Sherlock murdered one day.

John wretchedly wondered if the man would notice a poisoned English muffin coming.

Sherlock managed to ruin anything. Everything. Just by sheer dint of his maladapted genius, his child-like nitpicking, and that _bloody thing he did with his eyebrows_ that seemed to say, "Oh, and you've _not_ been proven to have been at some point cross-bred with a dog? Interesting."

Good Lord. He couldn't do this all day.

After all, it was nearly Christmas, and he needed to get the good genius a present.


	2. Chapter 2

One week ago, John had bought Sherlock the first gift. At first, he wasn't sure _what_ to get the man – microscope slides, a visit to the doctor's, a new trench coat, a new harpoon? – but suddenly, inspiration had dawned on him. Actually, it had fallen on him, in the form of what looked like four-or-so feet of inside-out eel, but that was irrelevant. The point was that John had resolved to buy Sherlock his own mini-fridge.

And he had, as a matter of fact. Bought it, sneaked it into the house at seven o'clock in the morning (the most reasonable hour in the world to be in one's home, and thus the _only_ hour it could consistently be counted upon to have Sherlock _not_ be there). He had even gotten a few fruits and cheeses to put inside. They hadn't had decent cheese in 221B Baker Street since July of last year, when Sherlock grew it himself.

It had taken the man approximately twelve seconds to figure out what his gift was.

"New refrigerator? Don't need one." _Twelve seconds after the bloody door slammed shut._ It wasn't like Sherlock had _found_ it, he had just walked in (furthermore, it was in a drawer of John's that Sherlock absolutely never invaded, _whatever_ the persistent rumours about the two might be).

John looked, and felt, like a goldfish whose bowl had just been upended. "What – how?"

Sherlock barely glanced at him. "Please. First off, I can smell gruyere cheese. You hate gruyere, we haven't had any sort of cheese in the apartment since last July – when, by the way, I grew bleu cheese – and cheese requires refrigeration. Point one. Second off, Christmas is nearing, meaning you are obligated to buy me some sort of trifle, which usually ends up being self-serving as well, given the selfishness of human nature. You could just be getting me cheese, but you wouldn't be buying it this early, and if you were, you'd still need some place to store it. Getting me a place to store it would benefit you, too. Point two. Thirdly, and finally, you are sitting in a manner that means you have reinjured your leg, something that only seems to happen when you pull a hamstring carrying something heavy up the stairs alone. Unless you've gotten me a fifty-pound block of gruyere, which I doubt, you've been carrying something else up. A mini-fridge, I suspect."

John gaped.

"I don't need one. I like using that fridge. It is mine. A gift of a new fridge would be a gift to yourself. Gift invalid." Then Sherlock spun on his heel and vanished into the upper room.

A good bit later, John Watson could be heard thumping about as he staggered out the doorway of 221B, carrying something heavy.

Of course, there were other gifts. Two more, actually. Each, Sherlock had figured out soon after John had purchased them, and each the man had subsequently rejected. It drove John to near distraction, until he decided that the only _possible_ way to beat the smug genius was to show up with a present so late in the game that Sherlock couldn't discover it before John actually gave it to him.

Hence, the reason he was walking the streets of London at 11PM on Christmas Eve, swearing under his breath, completely and totally out of ideas.


	3. Chapter 3

Of _course_ Sherlock would think that any gift John gave him would be inherently selfish. The man thought like that, cynical and cold, especially after the Adler affair (and John had never discovered quite how much of an _affair_ that one had actually been, but when he tried to bring it up once, Sherlock had suddenly refused to speak to him for a week and had taken to playing adagios on the violin at 1:15 in the morning). Just because Sherlock had the reputation of being a reptile, it didn't mean the rest of the world was cold-blooded, though. There was such thing as a truly unselfish gift. So what could he get Sherlock?

A refrigerator? He had already tried it, and it hadn't passed the selfish test anyways (Just because he reaped some small benefit from it, didn't mean it was bloody _selfish_, just practical. He wasn't justifying this. They lived together. Something that benefited one of them inherently benefited the other. That was how it worked.)

New trench coat? Out of the question. Sherlock was so nitpicky about his clothing the man did the bloody laundry himself – and not in the usual London bachelor toss-it-in-the-laundromat-washing-machine-and-pray-to-whatever-gods-you-believe-in sort of way either. No, Sherlock actually _did the laundry_. In the kitchen sink. Every Tuesday.

(John had strong suspicions that the car that came to pick up the dressing gowns - the one article of clothing Sherlock possessed that he apparently could not clean himself - had, at one point or another, transported the British Queen. It would be very much Sherlock's style.)

Cigarettes? Mycroft would have him taken into a back alleyway and shot. Might actually do the shooting himself, come to think of it. Besides, Sherlock would smell it on him in an instant, and that would be that, Gift Number 5 down the drain.

Also, Sherlock was less of a pain when he was on tobacco. Went down from an infected cut to a sort of constant bee sting. Which made him easier to live with. Which benefited John. Which Sherlock would, of course, notice.

A book? Please. It was Sherlock. He'd have read it. Twice. And sent a furious note to the author pointing out any spelling errors.

Harpoon? No. Just no.

And the question remained. _What could he get the most idiosyncratic genius who ever lived? _Anything mildly ethical could be construed as selfish, anything not selfish wasn't even mildly ethical (John had considered, for a brief moment, getting Sherlock a case, then tossed it out on the grounds that he _was_ _not_ becoming the next Ripper just for Sherlock's wintertime amusements) Other than an ten-foot-monument and a throne to control the entire universe – which he probably _still_ wouldn't be grateful for – John could not figure out anything that Sherlock would like. He didn't seem to like anything, besides experiments and Ms. Hudson and the Adler woman and _very rarely_ John himself. He certainly hated people. Hated…oh.

_There was the gift._

John looked around for the nearest copy shop and, smiling wanly, ducked in.


	4. Chapter 4

It was Christmas in 221B Baker Street. A small Christmas – after the events of last year, most notably the Drunken Molly Hooper Debacle, everyone had 'made separate plans' this time around – but Christmas, nonetheless. There were lights and presents and a tree and figgy pudding, which John hadn't known was an actual food, but Ms. Hudson had apparently known how to cook. John was staying well away from the figgy pudding. He still wasn't sure it was an actual food.

It was the one time of the year Sherlock actually smiled when nobody was in pain. Right now, he was grinning at Miss Hudson as he waited for her to open her gift.

"Oh, Sherlock!" she gasped, drawing a beautiful silver necklace out of a lovely red box, "You really shouldn't have."

"Nonsense," Sherlock replied, "The Queen will hardly miss it."

John nearly choked on his tea.

Miss Hudson smiled amiably. "You wonderful boy." There was a sort of dinging sound from downstairs, and her eyes widened. "Oh! I nearly forgot. I made cookies. I'll be right back." She turned and left, bustling downstairs as John craned his neck to try and get another glimpse of the silver dangling from her left hand. It couldn't really be the Queen's, but…you could never quite be sure with Sherlock.

"Can I open your present?"

"Hm?" John asked, still half-preoccupied with Miss Hudson's gift.

"I said, can I open your present?" John turned back to Sherlock. The question was out of character for him – usually he'd open it whenever he wanted, sometimes a week ahead of time – and John was suspicious of the taller man's motives.

"What do you mean?"

"It's Christmas. I thought I should ask. Can I open your present?" What – oh.

"No, Sherlock. I like to open my own presents, thank you. Most people do." Sherlock rolled his eyes, clearly disappointed.

"Fine." He tossed John a blue-gray box. There was a label stuck on it, addressing it from Miss Hudson and Sherlock Holmes to John. "Can I tell you what's inside of it?"

"No!" Honestly, Sherlock was like a child sometimes. John didn't understand the strange dichotomy of his games. "But you can open yours. Here." He passed Sherlock his present, a thick rectangular cube wrapped in silver foil paper. Sherlock felt the paper, turned it over, shook it in his ear.

"Fascinating." The man was a child. A gigantic, impossibly smart child. And he was looking at John with a kind of bemused wonderment in his blue eyes. "I have absolutely no idea what's in here."

John blinked once. _That _was the sort of admission he had heard Sherlock Holmes make only once or twice, under great duress. John couldn't help it; he smiled a bit.

"Well, go on then – open it."

And the great genius ripped off the silver foil.


	5. Chapter 5

"Well?"

"John, this might be the most brilliant idea you've ever had."

"Thank you, Sherlock. Just don't forget them at the next crime scene."

"Do I really seem like the sort to forget things? Now hurry up, open yours. Miss Hudson is coming back with the cookies."

"That seems ominous."

"Just open it."

"Yes, Sherlock."

And John opened his present, and the resulting argument ensued, and Miss Hudson came back with the cookies and sorted it out, and all was well in 221B.

And the next time Sherlock got a call, the sort of call _he _found interesting, he remembered to pause by the door, pick up John's present, and tuck it into his pocket before they left.

_Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective_, the business cards read in embossed silver ink on one thick cream side. On the other, in the same elegant cursive, _I am deaf. Please address all verbal comments to my interpreter, John Watson._

Nobody would ever bother him at a crime scene again.


End file.
